Ten years had passed since the night the kingdom was drowned in storms.
The world had changed. Cities rebuilt, faith shifted, and time, as it always did, softened even the sharpest memories of blood and lightning.
But not all things were forgotten.
In a small town beyond the reach of kings and nobles, where the air was filled with the scent of wet soil and burning lamps, stood an orphanage — old, quiet, and half-forgotten by the rest of the world.
It was there that the child who once defied fate had been reborn.
His name was Aren.
The morning of his tenth birthday arrived like any other day — quiet, gray, and heavy with the low hum of rain pressing against the roof tiles.
The bells of the chapel rang twice, their faint echo rolling through the mist.
Inside a narrow dormitory room, Aren sat on his bed, staring at the faint cracks on the wooden wall across from him. The air was cold enough to see his breath. His blanket was too thin to keep the chill away, but he didn't mind. He had grown used to it.
He reached for the small pendant around his neck — a dull silver trinket shaped like an old crest. He didn't know where it came from, only that the caretakers said it was with him when he was found on the orphanage steps ten years ago.
Sometimes, when he held it too long, he thought he could hear faint whispers, like distant wind across glass. But whenever he tried to listen closer, it went silent again.
Today, though, the pendant was quiet.
Aren exhaled softly and rose from his bed.
Outside, the other children were already awake — laughing, shouting, and running around the yard as they did every morning.
When Aren stepped into the hallway, a few of them glanced at him. Their laughter didn't stop, but the way their eyes shifted was enough.
Some looked away quickly, pretending not to see him. Others smirked — just slightly.
He ignored them and continued walking.
It wasn't new.
Aren was used to being the strange one. The quiet one. The "empty" one.
In this world, every living being had spiritual energy — the faint spark of the divine that tied all life to the flow of the elements. It was this spark that allowed a person to awaken their affinity, the first step to becoming a Conjurer.
But Aren had none.
No pulse of energy. No trace of the elemental rhythm that the instructors taught every child to sense.
They called it The Silence Within.
To most people, a child born without spiritual resonance was considered unlucky. To others, cursed.
Yet Aren never felt cursed — only… hollow, as if something inside him was waiting for a sound he couldn't yet hear.
He stepped into the courtyard, the morning air thick with the smell of rain and bread.
"Hey, look who's awake!" one of the older boys called from near the well, grinning. "The ghost child finally left his cave."
The others laughed, though not all with malice.
Aren just walked past them.
The boy called after him again, louder this time. "Hey, Aren, maybe you'll wake up your spark today, yeah? Or maybe it ran away like your parents!"
The laughter grew louder.
Before Aren could respond, a voice broke through the noise.
"Enough, Brin."
The voice was soft but firm — belonging to a girl standing near the chapel steps. Her hair was light brown, tied into a neat braid that hung over her shoulder, and her eyes were bright, full of stubborn kindness.
Her name was Lena.
The other children quieted down for a moment, scowling at her interference.
Brin rolled his eyes. "Always defending him, huh? Maybe you'll catch his bad luck."
Lena crossed her arms. "Maybe you'll catch my fist if you keep talking."
Brin snorted but backed off.
Aren gave her a small, grateful nod as she walked over to him.
"You don't have to keep doing that," he said quietly.
"Someone has to," she replied, smiling faintly.
"Besides, I don't like bullies."
They walked together toward the prayer hall. The old bell above it chimed softly as the children gathered inside.
The morning prayers began, led by Sister Mira — a woman whose gentle voice always carried a trace of weariness.
"May the elements guide us," she said. "May fire warm our hearts, may water cleanse our souls, may wind carry our dreams, and may earth steady our steps."
The children repeated the words in unison, their small voices filling the chapel like an old hymn.
Aren's lips moved with them, but his voice was little more than a whisper.
He didn't know if the elements heard him — or if they ever would.
After prayers came lessons.
The orphanage's study hall was a relic of a forgotten age — ancient machines embedded in stone floors, glowing faintly when touched by spiritual power. The caretakers said these machines came from the "Old World," remnants of the gods' craft before the great fall.
As the children filed in, one of the devices at the center of the room rose slowly from the ground, gears shifting and lights flickering to life.
A figure appeared in shimmering projection — a woman made of blue light, her voice calm and rhythmic.
"Lesson Seven: The Nature of Elements."
The hologram's voice filled the hall. "All things are born from Creation's Laws — Fire, Water, Earth, Wind, and the lost aspects of Light, Shadow, and Void. Those who touch upon these truths become Conjurers — the wielders of reality."
Aren watched the glowing figure move her hands, forming symbols in the air. The other children were transfixed, whispering to each other, their eyes gleaming with wonder.
He listened too, quietly.
He didn't understand everything, but he wanted to.
The words Creation's Laws echoed faintly in his mind — familiar, somehow, though he didn't know why.
For a moment, the pendant at his chest felt warm. Then, just as quickly, it went still again.
When lessons ended, the children ran outside for supper. The smell of stew and baked bread filled the air again.
Aren ate quietly at the corner of the long table, as always. Lena sat beside him, chattering about the coming Affinity Test.
"It's only two weeks away," she said, her eyes bright. "Sister Mira says I might have a water or wind affinity. What about you?"
Aren stirred his food absently. "I don't know if I'll even have one."
She frowned. "Don't say that. You'll have something.
He smiled faintly. "You sound sure."
"I am," she said, puffing her cheeks. "The world wouldn't give you nothing. You'll see."
Aren looked down at his bowl, hiding his expression.
He didn't tell her the truth — that sometimes he could feel nothing even deeper than silence. A void so still it scared him.
But he didn't want to worry her.
So he just nodded.
That night, the dormitory fell quiet as the children drifted into sleep. Rain began again, pattering gently against the windows.
Aren lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
He could hear the soft breaths of the others, the rustle of blankets, the creak of old wood — the sounds of a peaceful night.
But inside him, there was only quiet.
He reached for the pendant again, fingers tracing its cold edges.
Sometimes, he wondered if this trinket was all he had — the only clue to a life he couldn't remember, a story that felt written in another world.
He didn't know that in a way, that was exactly true.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly beyond the hills.
In that brief flash of lightning, Aren's pendant glowed — just once, for less than a heartbeat — with a faint golden shimmer.
The kind of light that gods once feared.
And then it was gone.
The boy turned in his bed, unaware of what had just stirred around him.
Sleep finally took him.
The days that followed blurred together — routine, quiet, predictable.
Morning prayers.
Lessons.
Chores.
Dinner.
Sleep.
And yet, beneath that rhythm, the air felt heavy, charged — as though the world itself was holding its breath.
Each time Aren walked past the chapel, the candles flickered slightly, even when there was no wind. The old relics in the study room would hum faintly when he passed, though none of the other children noticed.
Sister Mira once paused mid-prayer, her gaze resting on him a little too long — as if she'd seen something in his shadow she couldn't name.
But she said nothing.
And life continued.
Two weeks passed like a whisper.
The dawn of the Affinity Test arrived with clear skies — the first clear morning in months.
The air was still, but it felt different somehow.
Aren woke before the bell rang. He sat on the edge of his bed, pendant in hand, heart beating fast though he didn't know why.
Outside, the chapel bell rang once.
It was time.